


That’s What Love Is, Idiot

by sherlockloves



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 22:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12803601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockloves/pseuds/sherlockloves
Summary: majesticdragonair asked: moving in together but Harry has a panic attack because there's a storage cupboard under the stairs





	That’s What Love Is, Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy can I relate to this one. I still feel very unsteady in my prose abilities, but at least I'm writing what I know. By that I mean pathological trauma symptoms, not the B plot wherein Ron is an amazing SAHD. I wish that was something I drew from my life experiences as well.

Harry and Draco’s relationship transformed first with a bang, then gradually over time. Grievances all seemed petty to Harry after the battle. Still, old habits die hard— particularly as it pertains to emotions. During their eighth year, Harry forced himself to perform small favors for Draco— a compliment here, assistance carrying books there. Each time, Draco’s eyes betrayed overwhelming amounts of gratitude and bewilderment. This made it easier to see the pure-blood boy in a sympathetic light. Draco’s animosity towards Harry had long stemmed from a sense of comeuppance, rather than genuine dislike. It was easy to reciprocate his small kindnesses. Eventually they had a rapport of sorts. They weren’t close friends, but they were no longer enemies.

After their commencement ceremony, Draco found Harry alone in a corridor. He’d been reflecting on his time at Hogwarts— the only home he’d ever known— and picturing his future after leaving it. Draco hugged Harry, made the briefest flicker of eye contact, and left without a word. That was the last Harry saw of him for almost a year.

The next shift in their relationship was through Hermione. Unsatisfied to merely train as a Healer, she also attended Harvard School of Medicine.

“It’s imperative that Healers be holistic,” she often said, as if she wasn’t the first and only person to hold such a mantra. “Knowing how to treat muggle ailments will no doubt come in handy when I’m healing wizards again.” Harry couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Sometimes he suspected Hermione merely loved being in school. Still, she seemed wiser than she was as a girl— not just smarter, but intelligent in a way that transcended “books and cleverness.” Or, maybe she was motivated by the price of rent in Boston. It kept Ron’s desire for children under control.

Harry’s work as an Auror kept him in London most of the time, but he visited often. When he did, he found himself surrounded by old friends. Arthur Weasley insisted on visiting constantly, of course.

“And you say muggles _run tests_ to see what’s wrong with them?” Arthur asked during one such visit. His eyes lit up whenever Hermione talked about muggle medicine.

“Certainly,” she replied.

“Like an examination of sorts? Do they use a _scamtron_?”

“No, no,” she said, careful not to laugh. “Usually a nurse will extract a bit of blood with a syringe, and send it to a lab to be examined.” Arthur learned in, absorbing every word. “The other kind of examined,” she added carefully.

“And are vampires a problem? Do they sneak in to the labs much?”

This time Hermione did laugh.

“Not that I know of. There aren’t many vampires in Cambridge.”

Ron stayed in their nearby flat, tending to the one child they did have. Molly flanked him whenever the family visited, cooing over little Minerva and critiquing Ron’s parenting.

“You need to read to her more, Ron, it’ll help her become verbal faster. Her name does mean ‘wisdom,’ you know, you don’t want her being a laughingstock…”

“ _My_ name means ‘wise counselor,’” Ron protested.

“That’s what mum said,” George piped up from the couch, “she’s at risk of being a laughingstock.”

Harry laughed good-naturedly, cuddled into an armchair between the two groups. He intermittently listened to this conversation, and the one between Hermione and Arthur. He loved these trips. He’d been worried about leaving Hogwarts, especially after his best friends moved to America. He thought he’d be alone. Instead he had something of a family. Not enough for Molly, of course, who often asked when he’d find a wife.

“Or a husband, dear, it’s all the same,” she’d say, hand patting his shoulder. “I just want you to have someone special around.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Harry assured her. Secretly, he was tempted to let her to find out by accident— harmless revenge for her prying. But even if he’d had the heart to do such a thing, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get married. The Dursleys were incapable of love; his parents for killed for it. What if he was bad at being a parent? What if something happened to him, and the child grew up alone? Would he ever find someone who wanted to spend their life with him— someone he felt secure with?

Some months into Hermione’s training, she noted that she’d connected with Draco. He was living in Salem, where he curated ingredients for the local wizard marketplace. His aptitude quickly led to an additional job: adjunct professor of potions at Ilvermorny. Seamus Finnigan was the Flying Instructor there. He quite delighted in the Irish heritage present in Massachusetts. The two had formed an unlikely friendship. More unlikely, however, was the working relationship that formed between Draco and Hermione.

She relayed all this to Harry via owl. Her revelation came as a shock to Harry. Several conflicting thoughts ran through his mind: _Why would she ever work with Malfoy? Wait, I don’t hate him anymore. But it’s not like she ever spent time with him— I thought she still hated him. How is Ron taking this? How can she be so casual? His fevered thoughts culminated in the memory of Draco hugging his after graduation._ He scrawled off a note:

_Hermione,_

_Do you mind if I apparate over this weekend? Would love to visit you and Ron._

Intercontinental owl post was a bitch to deal with. It was nearly Saturday by the time he received her affirmative reply.

***

Harry was bursting with questions when he arrived, but he waited until he could get Hermione alone.

“Are you all right there, Harry?” Ron asked. He scooped up Minerva, who snuggled into her father’s neck. “Let me make you dinner. You look restless— have you been getting enough air?”

Harry stood to hug Ron. His paternal instincts were adorable— moving, even. He was like a scrawny, tall Molly already. After the embrace, Harry looked through tears of joy at his friend. Ron looked back, entirely befuddled.

“Okay,” said Ron. “You’re kind of acting like Hermione when she was pregnant. If you’re feeling like her, too, I’d better get started on dinner.”

Hermione looked up from her anatomy textbook, one eyebrow raised, smirking at her husband.

“It’s a bit early for dinner. Go walk Minnie around the park, if you don’t mind; I’ll make Harry some tea.”

Satisfied, he strapped Minerva into her stroller and pulled out his wand.

“ _Solis praesidio_.” He looked over at Harry, smiling proudly. “It’s like sunblock, but it lasts all day. Amazing, right?” He face glowed with far more passion than he’d ever shown for a subject at school. After several tangents on the art raising children— “lately Ethel O’Marra’s books are in style, but I just think Emily Yuri has the better perspective, couldn’t live without the spells of the month in _Magical Dads_ either”— Ron departed.

“He’s really found his calling, has’t he?” Harry asked.

Hermione set down steaming mugs of black tea between them.

“I always knew he’d be an amazing dad. One of the things I love about him.”

“Granted, I didn’t have a vested interest in it, but that never occurred to me.”

Hermione gave a warm, wise smile.

“Not to brag—” She smiled at the irony. She didn’t mind bragging; it was underrated. “Or yes, to brag: I have a knack for reading people.”

Finally; an in for Harry. For some reason, her vague aside about Draco had been on in his mind all week.

“Speaking of that—”

“Draco. Yes.”

“I wasn’t going to—“

“Oh? What were you going to say?”

Harry sat dumb, brainstorming excuses.

“So,” Hermione continued, “Draco. As I said, he’s a buyer for some of the shops around here. Of course, he’s a veritable expert on potions— a natural consultant on the subject.”

“Malfoy as a freelancer… it doesn’t seem to fit him, somehow.” _Because Malfoys don’t work_ , he thought. “And he’s a professor, too?”

“Adjunct. He’s planning on resettling in London at some point.”

“Why be here at all, then?” _I’d also pictured him living in Malfoy Manor. Wait, why do I have so many opinions on Malfoy?_

“I think he just wants to get away from his family. His past, to an extent. His title, certainly. America’s not as interested in lineage. You don’t find muggles saying they’re one-thousandth in line for the throne, and you don’t find wizards marching about with impunity.”

“A curator for wizard shops— I suppose he travels a lot.”

“Some. Often he’ll find something important in the muggle shops around here.”

“ _How_?”

“Well, Salem has a bit of a history, you know, if you bothered to listen to Binns—”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, a lot of muggles were killed for being witches. They blamed everything on witchcraft. Mainly, it was women who were a bit different that paid the price. Hundreds of years later, people interested in wizardry gravitate here. It seems dark, I suppose. Maybe it’s defiance of evil.” Harry could relate to that, at least. “So, one can find useful ingredients in their stores, if one really knows what they’re used for. Generally, it’s muggles who own and frequent the shops, tourists and the like, muggle witches. Real wizards go to Sarah Wildes Square.”

“Muggle witches?”

“It’s an oxymoron, I know, but it fits. People without wizarding blood who perform spells. I don’t know much about them.”

“I just can’t picture Draco Malfoy in a muggle establishment.” The part of Harry who still resented him suppressed a grin at the image of Malfoy tucked between tourists, looking deeply awkward.

“Oh, he’s completely changed. Dated a muggle witch who owned one of the shops, even. Didn’t work out. He dates a lot.”

Harry had no idea why the top of his ears turned hot.

“Well, I can picture him being a bit of a playboy.”

“Don’t be rude. He just didn’t feel comfortable with a muggle. Had to reverse any enchantments in his flat when she visited.”

“Or he’s just biding his time, holding out for a pure-blood,” he jeered. “Be a bit hard to find anyone with as long a pedigree as the _Malfoys_.”

“You’re awfully full of criticism today. You seemed to really take to him in eighth year. Anyway, he had a bit of a thing going with a professor. He came from a long line of medicine men, and they didn’t work out either.”

Harry felt a peculiar sense of comfort at this. Hermione studied Harry carefully, taking a long sip of her tea.

“Getting here must have been awfully last-minute for you. Intercontinental owl and all. You know they have cormorants do part of the trip? Come again next weekend. You two should reconnect.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry said, sitting up stiffly, “but I’ll visit you and Ron. Have you told him about working with Malfoy?”

“ _Harry_! He’s my husband! Of course I told him."

At this point, two redheads burst into the flat.

“She’s asleep,” Ron shared. He gingerly carried Minnie into the nursery. When he emerged, he sat with them, conjuring up his own mug of tea. “What is it you told me?”

“Working with Malfoy.”

“Right,” Ron said. “We bumped into him on Wildes. I wanted to snub him, personally, but I remembered how nice you were to him after the war. Hermione’s been sharing chemical compounds of muggle medicines with him. He whips up similar potions, tries to mimic their effects. Maybe Healers could use them.”

“I don’t really get what the point is,” Harry admitted. “Wizards can literally ’stopper death.’ What’s the point?”

“Well,” Hermione said, “have you ever heard of a wizard being treated for mental illness?”

 

***

 

Work was particularly exhausting that week. There was a rash of raids— all dumb kids who romanticized Voldemort’s reign. It disgusted Harry. He wished they knew what being a Death Eater really meant.

Between the adrenaline of the raids, the late hours completing paperwork, and his frustration at those who dabbled in the dark arts, Harry felt almost sick. Impatient for a change of scenery, he decided to leave London a bit earlier than expected. He doubted this would trouble his friends terribly— and anyway, he couldn’t exactly ask for their permission. After work wrapped up on Friday, he scrubbed the week off of him and apparated.

He was greeted by a crackling fire, the warmth of which was instantly soothing. There was a domestic peace in Ron and Hermione’s apartment— a sense of love he couldn’t replicate in his own solitary flat. He slowly took in his surroundings, all illuminated in shades of orange: Hermione, still in her scrubs, sat deep in thought over a table littered with diagrams. Toys were strewn about the floor between her and an old, worn leather chair. In it, a man with unmistakable platinum hair flipped through a portfolio.

“Draco.”

He turned upon hearing his name, and looked quite surprised by the source.

“Harry.”

“Well, sit down,” Hermione piped up. “We’re examining flaws in a new antidepressant. Draco feels they might be remedied by replacing certain elements with mandrake seeds. Perhaps it’ll interest you—”

But the reverie remained intact. Harry stood fixated, staring into the eyes of the equally motionless man before him. Draco’s face was hypnotic. His eyes were as expressive as always. His mood would forever be transparent to any who cared to look at them closely enough. His cheekbones stood high and pronounced. All of his features, in fact, seemed to derive their attractiveness from their very severity. As if to illustrate this, his pale skin stood contrasted against black robes. Even the way he sat was elegant— so much so that Harry suspected his posture was affected, but did not mind one bit.

A shrill beeping broke out. Hermione removed a pager from her scrubs pocket.

“I have to go,” she said. There must be an interesting case at the hospital. I’ll probably be back late.”

Harry followed her onto the stairwell.

“What am I supposed to do with Malfoy?” he hissed.

“Perhaps you should have anticipated an awkward arrival,” she replied, “as you’re here early.”

“I’m sorry, truthfully, but how could I have warned you?”

“I’m a student at a muggle university, Harry, I _have_ the internet.”

“Are muggles _still using_ that?!” said the 1980 baby incredulously. “And what was the business about cormorants, then…?”

Ron opened a door at the bottom of the steps, head down and garment bag in tow.

“I’ve just dropped Minnie at the neighbor’s. I have your dress here. Did he come? This wasn’t the easiest reservation to get—” Ron squinted up the dark stairwell. “Oh hey there, Harry.”

“You _planned_ this,” Harry accused in a hushed tone. “But why? And also, _how_?”

“Divination’s not so useless after all,” Hermione said. “Lock the door on your way out.”

She ran down the steps. Harry wondered if she’d answered his last question, or both.

He took a deep breath and stepped back inside. Malfoy was packing his things, his robes swirling around him.

“Suppose we’re done for the night, then.” Draco looked awfully sheepish— a holdover from their last year at Hogwarts. “Are you staying here? Should we leave a note for Ron, saying where Hermione is?”

So he was oblivious, too— of course he was. Hug of gratitude or not, he didn’t likely wish to be trapped with his former enemy.

 _Well_ , thought Harry, _that’s too bad for him_. _I will not spend tomorrow being lectured about_ divination _from_ Hermione _of all people_.

“I’m starving,” Harry said truthfully, “and I don’t know Wildes Square too well. I also get the feeling I’m not precisely welcome here until tomorrow. I’m not honestly sure what the night holds for me.”

“We never do,” Malfoy remarked, slinging a bag over his shoulder. Come with me. I have an extra room.”

 

***

 

He never went so long without seeing Malfoy again. At first, they would only meet during Harry’s occasional trips to Cambridge. There, he would watch Draco’s face in the firelight, stern with thought as he consulted with Hermione. They’d meet up for a meal or two, joke about their respective colleagues. One weekend when Minnie was teething, Harry showed up at Draco’s, practically begging for a reprieve from the crying. They holed up together, watching movies and talking about nothing. When night fell, it seemed stupid to move from Draco’s bed to the guest bedroom. So, he didn’t. They didn’t do anything, per se; just cuddled a bit as they fell asleep.

Draco began to visit London a night or two each week. He’d listen patiently as Harry ranted about work. Draco never broke eye contact. He looked at Harry with empathy when he complained of stress, agreement when he said it was all worth it, and pride when he brought dark wizards to justice. Harry didn’t want to get his hopes up, but sometimes Draco seemed to look at him with affection, attraction, even love. If nothing else, at least he had someone to fall asleep next to.

Then one snowy day, as they laughed madly at inside jokes outside Harry’s flat, Draco put his gloved hands over Harry’s cheeks and pulled him in for a kiss. When his head stopped reeling, he decided he never wanted to be without Draco. Draco, for his part, agreed.

A few weeks into their relationship, it became clear why Draco had trouble remaining close to people. Some nights he’d lie awake for hours, sweating through bedsheets, struggling to breathe. Sometimes he pushed Harry away, staying at his own place in America for days without visiting. Other times he flew into a panic when Harry left, as if he’d never see him again. Fortunately, Draco didn’t hesitate to talk when he was calm. The details spilled out of him. He’d been waiting ages, he said, for someone to listen without judgment or an ulterior motive.

He detailed everything: how he sometimes felt as though he were back in Malfoy Manor, with Voldemort lurking around. How his heart raced so badly he sometimes thought he might die. How a simple word or object could make him feel as though he were back in the War.

There were some things Draco couldn’t quite elucidate. Harry noticed them anyway. Draco seemed to bathe a lot— often several times a day. One night, Harry drifted off to sleep, lulled by the spray of the shower. When he awoke three hours later, it was still running.

“Draco? Are you okay?”

He opened the door to the bathroom, to find it was pitch black inside. Draco knelt on the shower floor, head against the wall, barely awake. Under the ice-cold spray, he scrubbed one forearm again and again. Harry grabbed the biggest, warmest towel he could find, walked Draco to bed, and held him under the covers until his shivers turned to sleep.

Draco healed over time. He kept busy with Hermione, who doubled as a counselor of sorts (“Utter conflict of interest, of course, we simply must train wizard therapists when we get the chance.”) While much of his improvement was due to meetings with Hermione, journaling, and other methods he’d undertaken on his own, he never hesitated to remind Harry that he was his saviour in more ways than one.

Five years later, things had fallen into place for the class of 1999. Hermione finished medical school, and completed a residency in psychiatry. She and Ron moved back to England, where Hermione’s theories attracted a great deal of interest.

“I worry that Minnie will never lose her American accent,” Ron griped, “but I love her anyway.”

Seamus continued teaching at Ilvermorny, eventually striking up a romance with Marcus Flint.

Luna ran an independent newspaper from her home in the countryside. Neville gained renown as an herbology scholar. They had children early and often, each equal parts whimsical and brave.

Draco had just finished his arrangements to open an apothecary on Diagon Alley, where Hermione’s findings were sure to make the business a success. Draco flipped through his business plan, lying in bed next to Harry.

“I guess you’ll be needing a place to stay,” Harry said, “now that you’re returning to London.”

“Sure, I’m just about to close on a house.” Draco shared this so casually it made Harry’s mouth drop.

“That’s nonsense! You should stay with me,” Harry said.

“Bit last-minute of you, but I can’t complain. If it hadn’t been for that trait of yours, plus the ingenuity of a certain mutual friend, I suppose we wouldn’t be together. But yes, of course you’ll be living with me.”

Harry grinned, and swept Malfoy onto him, papers flying everywhere.

“Excuse you,” said Malfoy playfully, “I was reading that.”

“Shut up. You bought us a house? That’s adorable.”

“It has a few extra rooms. You know, if you decide to have little mussy-haired Potters running around.”

“I can’t think of anything better. Since you’re such an avid planner, I suppose you’ve thought of names for them?”

Malfoy turned serious for a moment, stroking Harry’s hair.

“I think I’d like to honor my mentor,” he shared. “Name my son Severus.”

“I like that idea,” Harry said. “It’s a wonderful way to honor a mentor. Of course, that means we’ll be naming him Albus.”

“I’m sure we’ll come up with a compromise.” Draco leaned in to meet Harry’s lips, pressing his chest onto his. “Building a life together. It’s so beautiful— doing all the things my parents never did for me.”

Harry remembered the trepidations he’d felt years before. He tried to stuff his concerns down, enjoy this time of transition. However, it didn’t feel the same.

 

***

 

“You should see the house,” Draco said the next morning, “now that I know you’re definitely in.”

  
“I’m really not particular,” Harry said. He had a strong premonition they’d have this very conversation several times, once they got around to planning a wedding.

“It’s a house,” Draco said. “Kind of a momentous purchase. You should at least see it— make sure you like it.”

  
“All right, but I’m sure it’s perfect. I’ll only go because I’m excited to move in.” _Even if I’m also seriously overanalyzing the risks_ , he added silently.

The house was surprisingly cozy. Harry had thought Malfoy would gravitate towards a sprawling estate, all perfectly finished mahogany and velvet drapes. Sure, it was elegant, but it was also somewhere Harry could feel comfortable.

There was just one thing. In the front hall, below the staircase, there was a cupboard.

He’d been unable to take his eyes off it while Draco conversed with the real estate agent. It seemed to pose a threat of some kind— as if looking away would somehow be disastrous. He felt his robes were moving with the force of his heartbeat. He hoped no one noticed. Stepping out of the house, he was able to breathe easily again.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked. “You’re sure the house is okay?”

“Yes,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “It’s perfect.”

During one his Salem trips, Harry had gone to a muggle museum about the witch trials. One room was filled with statues, each of which lit up with accompanying audio. One of the few men executed was depicted. He had been crushed to death, rocks piled high atop of his chest. Beneath layers of boulders, the man let out a tortured groan: “More… weight…”

Harry felt he had a rock on his chest whenever Draco shared news about their soon-to-be home. He didn’t dare say anything about it. He was supposed to be the one who protected Draco— not the other way around. What if his newfound vulnerability ruined Harry for Draco? Or worse, what if Draco regressed as a result of Harry’s own traumatized state? He was angry at himself, at the Dursleys, at life— it wasn’t fair. What had he done to deserve these feelings? He should be able to live in a world with cupboards under stairs without falling apart.

Within months, the house was ready. This time, Harry wouldn’t look at the cupboard. It was, it occurred to him, not unlike Draco and his Dark Mark. Except these days, he didn’t ignore it as much. Sometimes Harry found Draco actually peering directly at it. The first time, he’d felt sure this was a problem.

“Hey,” Harry had said, stepping towards him and gingerly cupping his shoulder. “It’s okay.” To his surprise, Draco had looked back at him and smiled.

“I know,” he said. “Hermione taught me about this thing— immersion therapy. When you’re in a decent emotional state, you immerse yourself in the memories that bother you. It gets easier to deal with over time.”

Maybe that was all Harry needed. Unpacking that first day at home, he intermittently stared at it or avoided the sight. He didn’t feel as bad as he had prior. Maybe it was working.

But that night when Draco touched his neck, Harry pushed him away with more force than he’d meant to.

“Whoa, okay. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what’s up with me.”

“Just tired, maybe? You know, you can tell me anything.”

“I know,” Harry lied.

It went on like this for some time. The fact that things were slow at work somehow made Harry’s anxiety worse. The less actual problems he had, the more the past seemed to creep into his consciousness.

They held a housewarming party. Molly arrived early to help set up.

“It’s such a lovely home, dear, but it feels awfully empty without children…”

“Oh my god,” Ron whispered over his tea. “Ignore her. We have three now and she _still_ asks when she’ll get another baby to coddle…”

Neville brought them a houseplant heavy with red and violet blooms.

“It’s pretty, of course, but it also has medicinal properties. Congratulations on your apothecary. Let me know if you need help with supply.”

“Thank you, Neville,” replied Draco, as if anyone could have predicted such a civil conversation between them in their younger years. “I definitely will.”

Neville beamed proudly. For all his maturity, he still seemed to marvel at acceptance. Luna, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about it.

“You worked at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, right?” she asked Hermione.

“Yes, I did my residency there.”

“I’ve been there. The campus is pretty, but it’s roving with vampires.”

Seamus and Marcus made an appearance as well.

“I would have liked for us to cause a scandal,” Seamus said. “House rivalry and all. Of course, you blokes had to go and ruin that for us,” he added with a wink.

When they’d gone, Harry turned to whisper to Draco.

“I honestly thought Marcus and Wood would be a thing.”

“They _were_ ,” Draco whispered back.

A couple walked into the kitchen, at first a blur of dark robes and platinum hair. This time, however, the sight was not a happy one for Harry.

Harry shot Draco a venomous look before greeting their guests.

“Lucius! Narcissa! It’s… a pleasure.”

Lucius looked less happy than Harry was.

“Well, congratulations on this… _lovely_ home,” the elder man said, placing a glass-encased Hand of Glory on the center island.

Draco, having long ago learned of Harry’s Knockturn Alley misadventure, shot Harry a hopeful smile. It went unreturned.

“We’re just so proud of you boys,” Narcissa said, laying her own hand on Harry’s chest. Sense memory cheered him up somewhat.

“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully.

The couple left mercifully early. Harry immediately pulled Draco into an empty room.

“Why were _your parents_ here?”

“Are you serious? I’m a small business owner. You think I bought this thing on my own?”

Harry bristled at his own stupidity, but continued to direct his anger elsewhere.

“You couldn’t have told me?”

“It really never occurred to me that you wouldn’t assume for yourself. Besides, I don’t want to talk about them more than I have to.” He looked disappointedly at Harry and sighed. “Honestly, I get it, and I’ll tell you if I invite them to something in the future. But really, how could you think that was harder for you than it was for me?” He left the room. Harry stood in the dark for awhile, guilt and self-loathing now mingling with his anger and panic.

He bluffed his way through the rest of the evening, thanking guests for coming and putting on a brave face. When only he and Draco remained, they proceeded wordlessly towards the staircase to retire. Then, Harry turned to the cupboard— and proceeded to slump unto the floor.

Draco knelt beside him, calmly assessing the situation. Harry’s eyes were fixed on something far in the distance— something Draco couldn’t see.

“Can I touch you?” Draco had learned this habit from their first night at the house.

Harry tried to speak, but failed for lack of breath. Through no small effort, he managed to nod. Draco locked his arms beneath Harry’s, walked him up the stairs, and lay him down on their bed. After disappearing for a moment, he reemerged with a small vial of pink liquid. Upon being uncorked, a tuft of smoke curled up. It smelled of lilacs and chamomile.

“It’s kind of like Muggle Valium,” Draco said, “with a hint of a beta blocker. Basically, it will slow your heart down, and make your anxiety a bit more manageable.”

Harry took the vial and drank it. To a small degree, his panic subsided.

“It’s certainly fast,” he remarked.

“One of the many ways magic improves upon muggle medicine. What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The Dursleys.”

Draco nodded; he had a fair degree of understanding, but not enough to make the connection.

“Before I went to Hogwarts— before they felt they were being watched— they made me live in a cupboard under the stairs.” He rambled on for awhile, paused, and added: “I don’t want to be a bother to you.”

To his horror, Draco laughed.

“It isn’t _funny_.”

“The situation isn’t, I’m sorry, but that is.” Draco ran a hand through Harry’s still-damp hair. “Why would you be a bother to me? I want to help you.”

“But _I’m_ supposed to help _you_.”

Draco laughed again, and gently pulled Harry’s head to face his.

“That’s what love is, idiot. Being strong when the other person is weak.”

Harry took Draco into his arms. He felt he would never fall asleep— his heart still raced, albeit less so than before— but when he did become calm, he was exhausted. When he awoke, bright afternoon sunlight streamed unto the empty bed.

He found Draco downstairs, wand in hand, looking satisfied with himself. In front of him, the staircase stood sans cupboard.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked. “Shouldn’t I learn to live with it?”

“There are some things we can’t avoid,” Draco said. “Scars, for example. We both know a little about that. Memories. Life in general. Cupboards under stairs? Personally, I find them tacky.”

Harry laughed harder than he had in months. He embraced Draco, who met him with a deep kiss.

“Draco— you’re amazing,” he said.

“I know. And if you try to be Strong Mr. Saint Potter again, I swear to god I may hex you.”

Harry nuzzled into Draco’s neck.

“I do believe you’ll make good on that threat. I wish I could be as vulnerable as you, and honestly, I’ll try to be more open about the things that scare me. But they’re just that: fears. Promise you won’t take them as me not wanting a future with you, okay?”

Draco nipped at Harry’s earlobe.

“How could I make such a foolish mistake? I’m amazing.”


End file.
